


Three hours, twenty-six minutes.

by Classiq



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classiq/pseuds/Classiq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>October 24, 2012: Giants take Game 1 of the World Series 8-3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three hours, twenty-six minutes.

The night air was cool and slightly heavy. Barry Zito stepped out of his car and swung the door shut. He hit the lock button on his keychain and took a second for himself. Leaning against the vehicle, he shook his head. What a night. What an unbelievable night. Is this how it felt to be Vogey? Probably not, but it was a fraction of that incredible feeling.

His hands had left warm prints on the car window. He rubbed the sleeve of his sweatshirt against the glass but only ended up smearing it. Whatever, he could get it washed some other time. All he wanted to do was head up to his apartment to see the look on Amber’s face when he walked through the door. His wife had been at the game, but the players had stayed later than usual and she didn’t like to linger. She’d sent him a quick text message letting him know that she’d be waiting at home, but offered nothing else.

He jiggled the handle to see if she’d left the door unlocked for him. Nope. She always said that she didn’t think about it and automatically locked up as soon as she went inside. No matter. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. The smell of something delicious and hearty greeted him. “Amber?” he called, unable to contain the grin that was stretched across his face. 

“In here,” she called from the kitchen. He threw his keys on the coffee table and headed towards the sound of her voice. “I’m making spaghetti. I know how you like to eat your weight after a start.”

Amber was stirring a pot on the stove and humming to herself. Even wearing yoga pants and a tank top, Barry’s heart still ached every time she saw her. She turned around and offered him a quick smile. “How was your little pow-wow?”

“Good…” Barry said, trailing off. Was this one of those little tricks? Was she pulling a stunt on him as if he was a rookie getting the cold shoulder after hitting his first home run? “We talked about being here for tomorrow. You know, every inning meaning something. Romo shed a few tears. Pablo got the crap beaten out of him in the most humane way possible. We played another Halloween prank on Belt- he’s so easy to scare, I mean, we convinced him that one of the supply closets was haunted and now he can’t stop thinking he’s hearing ghosts in there.”

Amber laughed and turned the stove burner off. “You guys are so mean to him, I swear, he’s still so young and he’s in the World Series for God’s sake…”

“Oh, so you happened to remember that we’re in the World Series?” Barry asked with a grin, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Could have sworn you’d forgotten.”

She looked up at him and he saw her façade break. Her eyes sparkled with tears. “Barry, I can’t, I don’t…”

He shushed her and held her against his chest, feeling the hot tears welling up in his own eyes. “I love you so much. I couldn’t have even come close to doing this without you.”

“Don’t make this about me,” Amber whispered, brushing his hair behind his ear. “You’ve worked so hard for so long… all these years… and it’s finally all coming for you. You’ve never given up. People have been giving you shit for so long…” She choked back a sob. “When they chanted your name tonight, I felt so proud of you I couldn’t hold back the tears. Finally, everyone else was seeing you the way that I see you.”

Barry grinned. “I did a pretty good job, didn’t I?”

Amber kissed him on the forehead. “You were unbelievable. You started game one of the World Series. You got the guys to the series, and then you started the first game against the best pitcher in baseball, and you won. You even got a hit off of him,” she joked. He laughed.

“I wish I could take the way I feel right now and put it in a bottle and save it, because I didn’t know it was possible for a human to feel this amazing.”

“You are that amazing,” Amber murmured, and kissed him. He ran his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer. Fire coursed through his veins as he gazed through half closed eyes at his wife. “The spaghetti’s done,” she breathed, her fingers laced in the belt loops of his jeans. 

“That’s what microwaves are for,” Barry said with a mischievous smile, picking her up and carrying her towards their bedroom.

 

***

 

_Crack._

“There’s a bomb. Too late,” mumbled Hunter Pence. He put his bat down and began picking up the scattered baseballs at his feet. Hunter hadn’t felt comfortable enough to go home after their team meeting. He didn’t feel like he had gotten in the work that he needed to, and game two was tomorrow. Tomorrow seemed too soon.

He loaded up the balls into the pitching machine. He’d already been down in the practice cage for a half hour or so, trying to find out what was preventing his bat from hitting the ball under the lights of AT&T. Bam Bam had told him he was just overthinking.

“You’re trying to knock it out of the park every time you’re at the plate,” he had chastised Hunter. “Homers are great, but sometimes good baseball depends on the small ball.”

Hunter had felt better after that session, but tonight it was hard to ignore the impact of a well-hit home run. Going 0 for 4 had not made it any easier.

The machine dealt, and Hunter swung. _Crack._ Another hit. Why was it so much easier down here? He swung and missed terrifically at the next ball.

“Damn, maybe you should try to take a pitch,” said a voice behind him. Stepping out of the line of fire, Hunter turned around.

“Hey Belt,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Just still sort of shell-shocked by this whole thing. I was taking some time in the clubhouse by myself, but I started hearing those noises again…”

Hunter snickered. “Are you serious, dude? You are going crazy.”

“I swear there is something weird going on. Zeets was telling me about these spirits…”

“They’re fucking with you,” Pence said, walking over to turn off the pitch machine. “There. Now I can actually hear you.”

“I don’t know, man, there’s this closet they said was haunted and I can’t stop hearing weird noises. Zito says everyone knows about the ghost, and I know that every time I see Timmy walk by it, he gets a weird look on his face. I think he gets freaked out by it too because he tries to avoid going down there, so it can’t just be me…. I don’t know, I just was trying to find some people,” Brandon finished with a shrug.

“Because you’re afraid of the Phantom of the Clubhouse?”

“Well, just because I wanted to talk to someone. About the game. About the Series. About everything. I mean, I am going to talk to Haylee when I get home, but it’s not the same, you know?”

“Yeah,” Pence said, wiping his forehead with the orange sweatband on his wrist. “I get you. Today’s game was absolutely unreal. The way we got to Verlander.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“I am still waiting to wake up,” Brandon joked. “But why are you down here in the cages? It’s almost midnight.”

“I just… am frustrated.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. This whole postseason has been ridiculous, but I feel like I haven’t been doing shit.”

“That isn’t true,” Brandon said, stepping inside the cage and leaning against the side. “The way you fire everyone up makes more of a difference than you even know.”

“I guess, I mean, I’d much rather have my bat do the talking,” Hunter grumbled. 

“Dude, what are you even talking about? In game seven, you absolutely killed it with that double.”

“I know, but I feel like I come up short a lot more. I just want consistency.”

“We can’t all be Scutaro,” Brandon noted. “I went 0 for 3 today. But it was against Justin Verlander, who if you aren’t aware, is probably the best pitcher in the game right now.”

“And all this time I thought it was Zito,” mused Hunter. Brandon laughed. 

“Well the stats today would actually back you up.”

“I don’t know.” Hunter shrugged. “I just… watching Pablo hit those three home runs was amazing. I feel like I could do that, and I don’t get why I’m not.”

“Look, man,” Brandon said. “I have no advice to give you. You’ve been in the game longer than me, and I still feel like a rookie 99% of the time. But I know that when I am having trouble at the plate and start to feel down on myself, it isn’t going to do me any good. I just gotta step back and look at achievements as a team effort. _The Giants_ hit three home runs tonight. _The Giants_ stole two hits away with great catches. _The Giants_ threw nine innings of amazing baseball and got 8 strikeouts. I mean, let’s be real, we’re always going to overly criticize ourselves. We’re lucky enough to have a job playing a game that we love, so we make sure that we’re giving it our all every time we’re at the plate. But honestly, if you had gone 3 for 4 tonight, we’d still have won. We won the game, Hunter, and that’s something we should all be proud about.”

Hunter smiled at his feet. “What?” asked Brandon. “Sorry, sometimes I can’t shut up, Haylee yells at me about it all the time…”

“No,” assured Hunter. “I was just thinking that maybe next time, you’re the one who should be giving a speech.” 

“Yeah right,” laughed Brandon. “I’d probably get everyone together and then Zeets and Wilson would somehow rig some fake spiders to fall on my head or something. I don’t get why everyone has it out for me.”

“You make it too easy,” Hunter said with a smile. He ruffled Brandon’s hair. “All right, maybe I should go home and get some sleep, if that’s possible. I don’t want to show up for tomorrow’s game completely drained.”

“Just remember,” Brandon warned. “We’re a team. Even if you’re hitless tomorrow. Even if you get an error or completely miss a fly out. We’re all working hard for each other out there, and all that matters is getting out on that field and playing until your heart explodes. Okay, don’t actually do that though.”

“Got it,” Hunter said. They began walking down the hallway together.  “Thanks, man. Oh, and if those ghosts give you any more trouble, let me know. Little known fact: I’m a part time Ghostbuster.”

“You know, I have no trouble believing that. And at least if this hitting thing doesn’t work out, you still have a backup plan…”

“You know what, on second thought, I hope those ghosts get you tonight.”

“Oh come on man, that’s bad luck! Don’t mess with the spirit world!”

 

***

 

George Kontos was sitting in a bar thirty miles away from AT&T. He spun the glass of beer in front of him, staring into the amber liquid.

He should feel good. He should be proud that his team was 1-0 in the World Series. He should be proud of his postseason record, but he wasn’t. He’d gone scoreless to start it out, but his last two appearances had been enough to knock him on his ass. He’d given up two runs in game four of the NLCS, and he’d given up that two run shot to Peralta tonight. No one was mad about it. No one really cared, especially about Peralta’s homer. Panda had already taken care of business by then.  
George had just wanted to relax somewhere. Maybe it was his inner frat boy talking, but the loud atmosphere of a bar was probably the place he felt the most calm. He’d downed one beer and ordered another. He wasn’t planning on overdoing himself. He just wanted to be able to remove himself from the situation for a few hours.

He watched the drops of condensation collect on the outside of the glass. “If that beer is as interesting as you’re making it look, you should probably buy me one.” George looked up. A tall woman with long black hair shot him a thousand-watt smile. “Kimberly,” she offered, holding out her hand. He took it and shook.

“Hey,” George said. “I’m… Travis.”

“Travis,” Kimberly repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Well, all right. So how about that drink?”

“Sure,” George said, calling over the bartender. “A beer for the lady?” He turned to her. “You sure you want a beer? You look more like a fruity vodka type of girl.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Kimberly asked, grabbing his glass and taking a sip. 

“Nothing,” George said with a laugh. “Nothing at all.”

“So what brings you to this bar tonight, Travis?” asked Kimberly. The bartender handed her the beer and she thanked him.

“Thinking,” George admitted. “Kind of relaxing, I guess.”

“Life problems?”

“Sort of. What about you?”

“I’m here with some girlfriends, but they seem sort of preoccupied.” She nodded her head in the direction of two little brunettes talking to a couple guys covered in tattoos. 

“Damn,” George said. “Looks like they’re plenty busy. I don’t know why you came over to talk to me, though. I don’t have any tattoos.”

“That’s okay,” Kimberly said with a grin. “You’re still young. Besides, I have one, so I get to feel like the badass tonight.”

George smiled. “I’m not worthy.”

“Damn straight,” Kimberly said, drinking her beer. “So what do you do, Travis?”

“Uh, I work at a baseball park.”

“Oh? That’s exciting. What do you do?”

“Uh… mostly cleanup stuff.” He took a swig of beer. 

“Somebody’s got to do it, right?”

“Right.” He was glad she didn’t ask anything more. “So what do you do?”

“I’m an accountant,” Kimberly said with a grimace. 

“No way.”

“What?”

“You’re too full of life to be an accountant.”

She laughed. “You know, I’ve heard stuff like that before. My friends over there are accountants too. We all work at a firm together.”

“Jesus, no wonder they’re over there talking to the Hell’s Angels- they’re probably dying for some excitement.”

Kimberly snorted. “No doubt. Secret life of accountants, and all that.”

“Accountant by day, party girl by night.”

“You sound like my mother,” groaned Kimberly. “It’s like I become a CPA and after that I’m supposed to just roll over and die, I guess.”

“You look remarkably lifelike,” George joked. Kimberly smiled.

They continued talking and joking through that beer and the next. George found out that Kimberly loved dogs, sushi, and riding bikes. Rap music was her guilty pleasure, and she knew a lot of lyrics that her conservative mother probably wouldn’t be proud of. Through it all, George kept details of himself to a minimum, but he was beginning to wish he hadn’t. Kimberly was smart and funny, and he found himself getting more and more depressed that he had dug himself into a hole.

An hour and a half went by, and Kimberly pulled up one of her colorful long sleeves to check her watch. “Well, looks like I probably should be going,” she said. “Work tomorrow and all. I ended up staying out a lot later than I planned.”

“What about your friends?” asked George. “Where’d they go?”

“I think they took those Harleys out for a spin,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ll be fine. I drove myself, anyway.”

“Let me walk you to your car,” George offered.

“Such a gentleman!” Kimberly held her arm out and George took it. They opened the door to leave the bar and a cold gust of wind hit them. 

“Here,” George said, handing her his jacket. She slipped it on and winked at him.

“Travis, you’re really outdoing yourself.”

“What can I say, I’m a gentleman.” He offered her his arm and she took it, leading him to her car. They stopped outside her little blue Prius.

“Well Travis, it looks like this is good night.”

“Yeah,” George said. “It really was a good night.”

“Mmhmm,” Kimberly said. She paused for a moment, giving him a look. 

“Why are you giving me the evil eye?” George joked.

“Because we’ve had this wonderful conversation and you never even asked me for my number! What’s the matter, are you intimidated by my business school degree? Am I some ugly hag or something?”

“No,” George said, stepping towards her. “None of the above.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her. The wind brushed against their legs, causing her to subconsciously move closer towards him. Kimberly’s soft mouth made George forget all about his ERA, and the heat of her tongue brushing against his raised the California temperature by about fifty degrees.

They broke apart and stared at each other. “Wow,” Kimberly sighed.

“Yeah,” George said, out of breath.

“Here,” Kimberly said, pulling a pen out of her purse. She wrote her phone number on George’s hand. “You better put that in your phone right away. I don’t want you to give me some excuse about ‘the number smudging off’ because I will find you. After a kiss that good, I don’t think I can pass up the opportunity for another.”

George blushed. “All right.”

“Oh hey, here’s your coat,” Kimberly said, sliding it off. George reached out for it and noticed something on her arm where her sleeve had rolled up. 

“Hey, your tattoo! I realized I never asked what it was.” Kimberly was suddenly overcome with a fit of giggles. “What? I promise I won’t judge you. Was it a drunken mistake? ‘Nerds rule’ or something?” 

She rolled up her sleeve and held her arm towards him. George’s jaw dropped. There on her forearm was the familiar “SF” of the Giants logo.

“You have a Giants tattoo. You’re a Giants fan.”

“Season ticket holder,” she admitted, slipping into her car. She blew him a kiss. “Good night, _George_.”

“Good night…” he said, feeling cemented to the asphalt. He watched her drive out of the parking lot and down the road. Shaking his head, he walked to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat and closed the door, and then burst out laughing.

 

***

“Be quiet! Someone’s going to hear you.”

“No one’s even around. Besides, you’re the one who needs to be quiet.”

“I would be able to if you stopped doing that thing with… your… tongue…”

“That thing?”

“Yes. That thing.”

“But you love that thing.”

“We’re going to get caught.”

“We never get caught,” Buster Posey assured. The players had cleared the clubhouse and headed home to get a good night’s sleep. Well, most of the players.

Tim Lincecum was sitting on a shelf in the supply closet, smothering giggles. Buster was pressed up against him, planting soft kisses against the length of his neck.

“You drive me crazy,” Tim admitted softly. 

“And you don’t drive me crazy? When you’re out there throwing to me…” He started to unbutton Tim’s flannel shirt. “When you’re striking out batter after batter in the _World Series_ …” He slid the shirt off of Tim’s slender shoulders and pulled the cotton t-shirt underneath it over his head. “You’re driving me absolutely…” Kiss. “…fucking…” Kiss. “… wild.”

Tim leaned into the kiss and tugged on Buster’s shirt. “You make me wanna drag you off to this supply closet between innings,” Buster teased, pulling his own shirt over his head. “Makes me wanna mess up that long hair of yours and make those perfect cheeks blush.”

“Buster,” Tim murmured, grating his nails against the catcher’s broad shoulders. “It’s this fucking closet, I can’t even walk by it without getting turned on.”

This was not the first time the two of them had ended up in the supply closet. It had started in the beginning of the postseason on the night they reunited their battery. Somehow after that game they’d found each other and Tim had grabbed Buster and pulled him into the closet. The rest was history. They’d never been caught, but Buster got off on the thrill of the possibility. He loved hearing Tim’s voice while they fooled around and made it his mission to try to get Tim to say his name as loud as he would allow himself.

“I can’t believe we’re here. The fucking World Series, again. How did we make it this far?” asked Tim, his hair tousled and collarbone slightly bruised from Buster’s incredible mouth. Buster kept his eyes on Tim’s while simultaneously working on his belt.

“I don’t even know,” Buster admitted softly. “I just know that I was never ready to go home. I gave it my all at the plate and behind it, because winning a game meant one more day playing… one more day fighting… one more day… with you.”

Tim’s smile broke Buster’s heart, and Buster pulled the belt from his belt loops in one fluid motion. He threw it on the ground where it rattled against a mop bucket. 

“You need to shut the fuck up,” Tim warned, taking Buster’s face in his hands. “What if someone comes in here and sees this?”

“They’d wish they brought a camera,” Buster said smugly, running his thumbs over Tim’s hipbones. Tim grinned stupidly, cheekbones flushing with red. “Also you have a particularly filthy mouth tonight.”

“I’m just excited. It feels so good to go out there and do what I’m supposed to do.”

“You’re throwin’ magic out there.”

“I didn’t know if I’d be able to do that again.”

“Shh,” Buster said, smoothing Tim’s hair. “Don’t talk like that. The saga of Tim Lincecum is nowhere near over.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep.” Buster nuzzled behind Tim’s ear, breathing in the scent of his hair. “And I think you’re gonna like what comes next.”

 


End file.
